


Fortress

by Skyzuki



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Custom Hawke, Deception, Default Hawke (Dragon Age), Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hi mom, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Purple Hawke, angey boifren, can be read as custom hawke i suppose, have fun reading my bullshit, hawke is alive and well!!, my mom knows my account info now, original horse character based off a horse i know irl lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyzuki/pseuds/Skyzuki
Summary: He leaves while Fenris sleeps.





	Fortress

He leaves while Fenris sleeps.

The elf is exhausted, grateful for a real mattress after days of travelling. His pale hair is mussed against the pillow, features slackened, chest rising and falling with even breaths. Just for a moment, Hawke allows himself to stare, unsure if he will ever get another chance.

It is a brisk, cloudless night; the sky would be clear, if not for the hideous wound that served as a constant reminder of the threat at hand. He packs silently, yet still continues to check over his shoulder to be sure that he isn’t being watched.

He dresses silently, as well. The buckles of his armor are hard to fasten in the dark, but he cannot risk lighting a candle now. Every slight shift of his weight causes the floorboards to creak, and he curses himself for choosing to stay in such an old inn. He thinks about leaving a letter on the bedside table - something to give Fenris some peace of mind - but he knows his lover, and he knows that a letter would only make things worse.

He finds himself adjusting the same buckle three times, making a mental checklist of his pack even though he _knows_ he has everything, fixing his hair in the mirror even though it hardly matters; anything for an excuse to stay in this room for just a few seconds longer.

Fenris is oblivious, and that kills him.

When he cannot possibly stall any longer, Hawke sits himself on the edge of the mattress. He kisses Fenris’ forehead with a gentleness that hurts, he cannot risk waking him now.

He steals one last glance before the door shuts behind him.

*

The journey to Skyhold is grueling.

The terrain is unpredictable; rocky hills, followed by grassy fields, followed by treacherous cliffs. His mount is temperamental; an old draft mare who is clearly well past her prime, she was the only horse available- according to the innkeeper.

He feels like he is travelling in circles; all of his surroundings are starting to blend together and the lonesome trek is almost maddening.

He is almost ready to turn around and give up, when he sees the fortress on the horizon. Varric wasn’t lying about its grandeur, the structure is more a palace than a base of operations. It’s picturesque from a distance, the tallest tower framed by clouds.

The guards let him in without question, respectfully bowing their heads in a way that Fenris would snort at, if he were present. The interior of the keep is not nearly as magnificent as the outside; the ground is littered with broken wood and debris, some of the smaller buildings appear to be collapsing in on themselves. No one approaches him at first, the occupants of the fortress are still shaken from the events at Haven.

 He brings his horse to the stables and presents her with an apple as consolation for carrying his weight for days on end. She graciously accepts the gift, and Hawke turns to search for familiar company.

He feels too large in the sea of rattled survivors; he is not privy to their suffering, he did not face what they had to, he has not yet lost a loved to the Breach or its power. An overwhelmed surgeon is working on mending three soldiers at once, children are huddling close to their mothers, someone is crying in the distance. Haven was a catastrophe, and Hawke will not let it happen again.

*

Varric approaches him the dilapidated courtyard, smiling despite the situation. Hawke simply cannot hold back as he runs to embrace his friend- his best friend, truly.

“Now, if it isn’t my trusty dwarf.” He says, voice a bit thick with nostalgia and emotion.

“The mighty Champion of Kirkwall remains in one piece, I see.” Comes Varric’s response.

Too much time passed them by without reunion, and a crumbling fortress hardly seems an appropriate place.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke. Shits’ bad.”

“I hadn’t noticed, I thought you may have called me all the way here for more recounts of my romantic exploits.”

“Well, now that you mention it.”

Hawke laughs warmly, deep in his chest. He is here, with his friend, they are both alive and well. They have a chance at normalcy, they all do.

*

The Inquisitor is a lithe Elven woman, who would be beautiful if not for her glowering expression. Her skin is dappled with dark freckles, cheeks round in a way that makes her appear no more than twenty; though she certainly must be older than that. Her arms are folded over her chest, and she regards Hawke with an air of distrust.

All of Thedas is praising this snippy little woman, and Hawke is taken aback by her blunt attitude. 

To his surprise, she asks him about Anders, and the questions she gives warrant no answers from Hawke. She asks about the Qunari, about Kirkwall, about his experience with Corepheyus. She’s read Varric’s book, that much is apparent.

The _thing_ on her hand is even more magnificent up close, glowing and pulsating fade-green energy.

“Why are you alone?” She inquires, cocking a dark brow.

He goes through the list; _Aveline is in charge of my brother, Merrill is helping the elves, Isabela’s probably sunning herself on an Antivan beach, Anders is living in a cave somewhere._ And then he pauses.

“Fenris would’ve killed himself to protect me.” It’s the first time he’s said his name in days. “I couldn’t give him that chance.”

The Inquisitor nods in understanding, Hawke is left wondering if she also lost people at Haven.

“Thank you for joining us, Hawke.” She states, a bit of softness in her eyes now.

*

The siege on adamant leaves him bloody and exhausted.

He is no stranger to the Fade, but this vision of the place was none he’d ever experienced. It was deafening, unsettling, sickening. He was really there, all of them were.

They leave without Stroud, and it makes Hawke feel guilty. He should have stayed, it should have been him.

The Wardens are invited to assist the Inquisition, and forces begin the journey back to the fortress. Hawke will leave for Weisshaupt in a day or two, he’ll write to Fenris then. Once things settle, when he’s out of immediate danger.

They return with a considerably smaller number of soldiers, far too many lost in the battle. As soon as the gates part, they are bombarded with worried civilians searching for individual faces. There are reunions all around, but just as much grief.

He stays in the main courtyard until the final stragglers have made their way inside. The tavern is booming with celebration, yet it feels inappropriate. He catches the silhouettes of drunken patrons through the yellow-tinted windows. The melody of an unfamiliar drinking song carries out from the inside.

He catches the Inquisitor stumbling out of the building, clutching at her cloak once she fully steps into the mountain air. From a distance, she looks so young, so vulnerable; surely this can’t be the elf prophesized to bring a god to his knees. She notices Hawke across the yard, motions with her hand for him to join her.

“Not one for celebration?” He questions, once he’s close enough to be heard over the music.

“Honestly? It doesn’t feel like I should be celebrating just yet.” The defensive edge in her voice is nowhere to be found, now. She might be drunk.

“I know I thanked you before,” She looks away, sheepish.” I mean it, Hawke, thank you. We accomplished a lot today.”

“You lost a lot, as well.”

“We did. They’ll rebuild though, they always do.” She leans against the cobblestone exterior of the building. There are shadows under her eyes that allude to many sleepless nights; Hawke can’t blame her.  “What will you do next?”

“I’ll go off to Weisshaupt soon, as soon as I’m rested enough to sit in a saddle without nodding off.”

“I wish you luck, Champion; I should get back inside before they come looking for me.”

Hawke smiles as she turns to leave.

“Inquisitor!” He calls before the door can fully close. “Take care of yourself, you’re no use to them dead.”

She nods once, lips upturned a bit as she lets the door slam shut. Peeking in through the window, he can make out the shape of the Qunari warrior grabbing her by the waist and setting her on the counter. She’s lost in the crowd almost immediately, and Hawke is suddenly aware of his lonely presence in the courtyard.

He decides that now is as good a time as any to call it a night, as he trudges up to his guest quarters.

It’s snowing, and the wind stings his cheeks.

*

The morning he is set to leave, he wakes with a blade pointed squarely at his face, the point of the metal just barely grazing the tip of his nose.  

Once he takes notice of the wielder, his heart drops into his stomach. He is not in danger, he is quite safe, in fact. Through his sleepy haze, he pushes himself upright and holds both palms up in surrender

He knows that pale hair, tanned skin, gem-green eyes; he knows those features more than he knows anything else. He knows the faint, pulsing blue glow that radiates off those strikingly painful markings like an aureole. He knows that scowl, though there is more pain than anger in the expression.

“Fenris, I’m sorry.” Is all Hawke can say, again and again. _Sorry, love, I’m so sorry. There was no other option I’m sorry, I couldn’t lose you.”_

The blade is lowered, as if there was ever any chance of bloodshed in this room.

“You almost died.” Fenris grits. “You were willing to die for them.”

“There are things bigger than my life.”

Fenris wants to protest this, Hawke can feel it, but he knows better than to make those types of arguments.

“How did you find me?”

“Do you really underestimate my common sense that much?”

“Of course not, you know—”

“The dwarf sent a letter.”

“Varric?”

“Is there another dwarf that would?”

There is uncomfortable, heavy silence.

“Come here, please. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

“Trust me, I’ve an idea.” Hawke feels stupid at that; of course, Fenris knows.

Taking pity on Hawke’s wet eyes and shaky hands, he relents, gingerly sitting on the edge of the mattress at first. Hawke reaches for his shoulder, uncaring that he’s met with the sharp edges of his armor rather than the warmth of his skin. Despite himself, Fenris lifts a gauntlet-clad hand to cover Hawke’s.

“I thought—” There are dozens of ways that Fenris could complete this statement: _I thought you were dead, I thought you grew tired of me, I thought you didn’t want me anymore, I thought you were never going to return._ He says none of them, just allows the silence to speak for him.

“Never, never do that again. If you do not wish me to follow, just say so.” Hawke looks up, then. Fenris is begging a little, just in his eyes. There are no tears; for all the years Hawke has known him, Fenris has only cried once. There will not be a second time, not now.  

He reaches his hands- still shaking a bit- to Fenris’s face, tracing his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. He does not answer, does not make any promises, but he does kiss Fenris softly on the forehead. The same spot that he kissed the night that he left.

“I love you.” Hawke says, shamelessly burying his nose in the wavy strands of his lover’s hair.

Fenris makes a noncommittal sound of agreement. _Of course, you do, you big oaf._

“I’m sorry.” He says, once more for good measure. And then he is crying, looking at Fenris as a kicked puppy might look at it’s owner.

Fenris sighs, kicking his legs up onto the bed and pushing himself forward slightly; an invitation. Hawke rests his face against the cool iron of his breastplate, snakes his arm around the elf’s slight waist. Fenris does not say anything, but he removes an armored glove and begins to trace circles across the expanse of Hawke’s back.

“When I arrived, Varric made it seem like you were left in the fade. He told me that someone sacrificed himself and I thought; ‘ _what will I do without him.’”_

He feels Fenris shake his head, denying his own admission.

“Stroud was a good man, he saved Carver’s life. I figured that- if he were to live, he could accomplish great things for the wardens.” Hawke has calmed a bit, but his voice is still embarrassingly thick.

Fenris says nothing to that, there is nothing to be said. Just his presence is enough for Hawke to take comfort in. Hawke’s hold around his waist is probably growing uncomfortable, but he says nothing.

“I was going to write to you, Fenris, I was—”

“Do not—”

“Please,” Hawke pulls back, hands going to Fenris’ cheeks once again. “please know that I would’ve _never_ just left you alone without reason; I couldn’t let you die for me, I couldn’t ask that of you.”

Fenris casts his eyes down toward the rumpled sheets.

“You would not have needed to ask.”

“I know.”

Hawke kisses him again, on the mouth this time.

“I love you.” He says again, so earnestly that it hurts.

“I am yours.” Comes the reply, whispered like a secret. _It is no secret, it never has been; any stranger could guess just based off the way they look at each other._

“I am yours.” Hawke echoes, knocking their foreheads together.

*

Hawke sets out for Weisshaupt that afternoon, as planned.

Before he leaves- Varric buys him a tankard of mead, which is exponentially better than the Hanged Man’s piss.

“It’s good to see that Broody didn’t run you through this morning.”

“He has a weak spot for me.” _He does not mention the fact that he ended up guilty-weeping whilst clutching at the elf desperately._ “I reckon it’s because I’m so charming.”

 He glances across the tavern at Fenris- who is uncharacteristically chatting with the lieutenant of Qunari’s band of sellswords. He looks up from the conversation just in time to lock eyes with Hawke, who winks at him.

*

They say their goodbyes at the archway of the fortress, what Hawke assumes is the Inquisitor’s entire inner circle has come down to see them off. Their mounts are saddled and ready, they have enough food and supplies to get them through the journey, they are set for departure.

Fenris is uncomfortable with the number of unfamiliar eyes, most regarding him with respect and familiarity. Fenris has not read the Tale of The Champion, but it is evident that quite a few of these people have.

Hawke claps Varric on the shoulder, one last time. “We’ll write once we reach Weisshaupt.”

“I giddily await your letter, Ser Hawke.”

Hawke chuckles, mounting his horse and lifting a hand to wave farewell.

‘Let’s move out!” He calls, and the guards set forward to lift the gates. Fenris takes his leave first, allowing Hawke a few more moments of sentimentality.

“Hawke!” The Inquisitor projects over the mountain wind, hands cupped around her mouth to amplify her voice. “Take care of yourself!”

“You as well, Inquisitor!” He yells back, feeling a bit childish, and nervous, and victorious.

 “I love you.” He says, voice echoing straight ahead this time; loud enough for Fenris to take notice and shift in his saddle to look over his shoulder.  

 _“I am yours.”_ Fenris says so quietly that Hawke has to read his lips to understand.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
